


Vivisection

by retrogrademercury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, masturbatory fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrogrademercury/pseuds/retrogrademercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In solitary confinement, you make your own fun. Set during Series 2, before the events of "The Reichenbach Fall."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vivisection

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit goes to my stalwart cross-fandom friend and sister-in-arms domenicapm, who also provided prompts and feedback throughout the writing process. We're both Americans, and this was not Britpicked, so all mistakes are ours. And apologies to Peter Gabriel for what I did to his song.

One gouge, then another.

  
S-H-E-R.  
  
 _That stupid mop of curly hair. Those eyes with their different colours._

  
L-O-C-K.

  
Where was he now? Running around the streets of London? Holed up in that flat of his with his live-in pet/doctor?

  
St. Bart's? With the girl? _Oh, Molly! Such a fool. So easy to manipulate. So desperate for love, affection, attention, anything_.

  
He pauses in his work to survey the cell. He's starting to run out of room, he finds to his utter dismay.

  
Well, once that's done, he'll have to find another distraction. Maybe actually get some sleep for once, and let his subconscious take over.

  
Will his dreams show him anything new? Or will they be the same as his current reality? One name, over and over. The only one who got close enough to get in his way. SHERLOCK. SHERLOCK.

  
Somehow, he can tell that the day is ending. There are fewer footsteps out in the hall. The light from the one window he can see _—_ and even then not very well _—_ tells him that the sun is about to visit another part of the globe. _Let it go, then_ , he thinks. _I always did my best work at night, anyway._

  
Oh, damn it all, sleep is actually beginning to sound like a good idea. So he heads over to the bunk and lets it happen.

  
He does dream after all, and not about the cell. No, it's them, at the pool. _The gun, held in its proper teacup grip. Those almond eyes, betraying nothing, and in doing so, betraying everything._

  
His eyes pry themselves open of their own accord, but it's nowhere near morning. He's flushed, breathing a little heavily.

  
He's forgotten about one very important thing. In letting that damned consulting detective take over his brain, he refused to stop to consider feelings. _No, not feelings_ _—_ _sensations, more like. Physical... something-or-other._

  
 _Fine,_ he thinks, _maybe just this once._ _Couldn't hurt, right?_ _Then maybe the brain can take over again._

  
Without any regard for the cameras that are no doubt hidden in the cell (and which he has had no care to remove), he lets the body take over.

  
Where to start? _We were considering the eyes, so let's start there. It seems like he can change them at will. And the face which houses them, with high sharp cheekbones. Pale complexion, so pale. Victorian ladies with their smelling salts and too-tight corsets would've killed for a creamy complexion like his._

  
Tighten grip accordingly, increase pace slightly. Continue.

  
 _Hair: curly. By turns, mussed and perfectly coiffed._ He simply needed to get in touch with the man's hairdresser, if indeed he allowed one near him. He allows himself a chuckle at his own joke.

  
 _Fashion sense? Sure, why not? That fetching purple number, yes. Perhaps the good doctor could take a cue, for once. Get a good tailor. Smarten up a bit on a more regular basis._

  
He scowls, stops, dismayed by this tangent. _Oh, the pet. Not interesting at all. Or, interesting but only because he's got it._ It— _Sherlock's attention._ And really, that was what this was all about, Sherlock's attention. _Oh, what must it be like, to be the complete centre of his attention, to have that razor-sharp intellect focussed on you. Heady, intoxicating—that was what it must be like._ And there it is, he's back on track.

  
The thoughts are coming through a little more disjointed now. That low voice, spitting off rapid-fire deductions. _Always just a half-step behind me. Chasing and pursuing. Aren't I a lucky boy, to have such a handsome suitor?_

  
Such a courtship dance! Every clue a twisted love letter. The Carl Powers incident: _I think you're keen. Let's go steady._

  
The cabbie:  _You let me walk you to your front door, but wouldn't even let me get to first base._

  
The car bomb on the street outside the flat:  _I couldn't find an old-school boombox, so this will have to do. “In your eyes, I see the doorway to a thousand churches,” blah blah blah._

  
Each and every bomb-strapped victim:  _Te amo. J'adore. Ich liebe dich._

  
And, of course, the pool:  _You're the only one for me._ _Be mine, forever and ever._

  
But once Sherlock knew the identity of his admirer, he'd run away, back to his spooked pet. Perhaps he'd laid it on too thick?

  
He's angry now, his brows knitted and his teeth bared.  _ What do you see in him? What is he to you, with that little brain?  _ What could possibly merit that focus, that attention?

  
“ _Brilliant,”_ the doctor's voice echoes through his brain; reverent, awestruck.  _ “Amazing.” _

  
So it's praise he needs, then.

  
“You're brilliant,” he breathes aloud. “Amazing.”

  
The Sherlock in his mind smirks, the only admission that he's pleased by the compliment. His hand, now slick, speeds up. He flicks his wrist and gasps at how well he responds to it.

  
“You've almost got me all figured out,” he blurts, and his stomach does a somersault.

  
_So figure me out, then. Take that scalpel of a mind to me. I'll even talk you through the vivisection. Here's my pent-up rage. Over there are my antisocial tendencies. Oh, would you like to see where I store the bomb recipes?_

  
His face, up until now screwed up in anger, begins to relax.  _ Dive in, darling. Diagram your favorite parts. Take a sample and put me under your microscope. _

  
The lab at St. Bart's. No doctors hovering in the background. Just the two of them and a wealth of medical equipment. He's laid out on the table like a specimen, and Sherlock approaches slowly, his laser-sharp gaze coming into view a second before the scalpel does. The first cut, the beads of blood—

  
Something deep down is starting to uncoil. He takes a deep breath and huffs it out.  _ I'd better go out on a high note, then. _

  
Sherlock is wrists-deep in him now, and the blood covering those slender fingers is black. Warm and sticky like blood should be, but  _ black. _

  
“ _So lovely,”_ the Sherlock of his dream murmurs, stroking some unnamed organ tenderly.  _ “So this is how you work. It's all so obvious now.” _

  
He jerks suddenly, but lets his back arch into it. What spills into his hand and onto his front is not the black blood of his dream, to his great disappointment, but as the afterglow creeps in, he allows himself to imagine Sherlock's smile. A proper smile, teeth and all. Predatory. And then he's gone, and the cell is back.

  
SHERLOCK. SHERLOCK.

  
“One day soon,” he assures the walls, “I'll show you that, deep down, we're made of the same stuff.”

  



End file.
